Naturally Homes sends down for some tea but why does his landlady, Mrs Hodsun, appear starkers except for a gasmask and a pair of pit boots?

And why, for that matter, does Shylock Homes spend so much time breaking wind into the chemical apparatus on his side table?

Later, in The Empire, where the Stone had been on display, Homes and Whitsun find the bogs have been smashed-up: what does that have to do with matters? Who knows. Shylock probably does whilst Whitsun and Le Strange probably don't.

To solve the case Homes has to do a load more farting, nearly killing himself in the process following an explosion in his Baxter Street rooms.

The culprit turns out to be none other than the extremely notorious and horrid man, Professor Morry-Farty.

But do Homes, Whitsun and Le Strange get their man? And what happens to the Stone?

So, what did the press think?

Norman Bycikul, The Shepheardston Fornicator.

"Truly exquisite. How refreshing it is to read iambic pentameter on a Sunday morning. JR's break into mainstream writing is confirmed when, in the very first paragraph, he has Shylock Homes smoking fermented horse shit. Later, he refers to Inspector Le Strange as '...a little queer.'  Sheer genius. But what's this? Do we really hear Dr Whitsun call Homes a '...cheeky git.' and 'Mr clever-shit detective.'? And I was enthralled when it came to Homes threatening to shoot Mrs Hodsun in the t*ts. You must read this work."
 
 

"Homes," I coughed, "Why the devil don't you stop smoking horse shit? Is tobacco not sufficient these days?" 

"Ah, Whitsun. Good to see you. First, doctor, Messrs Jones and Son, tobacconist, require five pence per ounce for their strongest smoking mixture and I am almost broke. Second, there is a plentiful supply of the other upon the road. See," he cried, pointing to my boots, "You have brought more in with you. Pray scrape off the shyte and place it in my old slipper for later consumption."

"You disgusting sod, Homes."

"That, Whitsun, is as may be. But smoking this substance takes my mind from the drear that clouds it at present. My chemical experiments have been but a marginal success and the criminal classes seem to have gone into hibernation. These blissfully delicate little smokes are, therefore, my only means of escaping the mental doldrums. I shall continue smoking dung at the equivalent rate of ten ounces per hour until something turns up." Shylock Homes sank back then began to fart; furiously and regularly. I remonstrated with him for his disgusting habits but he told me to bollocks. He then added: "Fair enough. Draw up a chair, doctor. Join me by the fire."

The distance between the door and fire is quite short yet Homes' request was all but impossible. There were chairs everywhere: I must have stumbled over seven or eight of them. Clearly Homes had been engaged upon some matter but would not reveal its nature despite my pressure. Groping through the green haze - yet another matter that Homes would not be drawn upon - whilst trying to find my usual seat, I opened the window to dispel the foul air. Eventually the atmosphere had cleared sufficiently for me to scan the newspaper: "Ah, Homes, I see the Stone of Ravishaft-o has been stolen, haven't you been engaged upon the case?" Homes shook his head in a very disinterested fashion: "No. I am familiar with the outline facts but it seems to be a simple affair that even the officers of Scotland Place should be capable of solving."

Leaving the matter there I moved across to close the window. Homes continued to smoke horse shit. Scraping the ice from the pane I watched for a few moments. Even in this bitter weather the teeming population went about its business. London does not stop even for the elements. But, as Homes said, the criminal classes seemed not to want to brave the cold. And on that note I was very concerned for Homes' sanity. Unless a substantial case presented itself very soon, I was sure his mind would be gone forever. But then my heart lightened. Rushing along Baxter Street, I saw a familiar figure: "Perhaps your services are required after all, Homes, for, unless I am very much mistaken, Inspector Le Strange of the Place is about to call upon us. Well, I think it's him...." 

We had hardly turned towards the door of our chamber when it burst open. Standing before us was the small, bearded, bowler-hatted man dressed not in his usual frock coat, but in a frock.

"It's a little queer....." began Homes.

"Yes I agree." I cried, with some revulsion.

"No, Whitsun, I was taking to Le Strange not about him. I was practicing my poetry: I was going to say, it's a little queer that you're here. Good, eh? Anyway, what gives, Inspector?"

"Oh, Mister ‘Omes," began the policeman, "I am glad to have found you in." 

"In where?" chided Homes. 

"In ‘ere, of course, Mister ‘Omes." puzzled Le Strange.

"Do not bother about Homes, my good fellow, he is playing the bastard just now. Should you not bring him a case I shall be forced to smash him in the gob with this poker to stop his moaning." I brandished the implement at Homes before chucking it back into the hearth, then motioned the inspector to a chair and pushed a box of our best Havanas towards him. Le Strange screwed up his face as only a man who smells a disagreeable odour knows how, then he lit a cigar.

"Errr, pardon me, Mister ‘Omes, but isn't there a vile funk within your rooms?"

"Indeed there is, inspector, ‘its Whitsun, here," he said pointing to me, "He has been on the curried eggs again so has been dropping his guts like there's no tomorrow. He has an arse that booms like the Queen Mary." 

"Really Homes." I ejaculated. 

Homes eased from his chair and stood with his right arm upon the mantelpiece. He began to scratch his goolies: "No, Le Strange, to be truthful ‘tis I. For the last half hour I've been furiously breaking wind into the apparatus that you see upon our side table. Hence, the rank stench."

"Interesting, Mister ‘Omes, but why?"

"All in good time, Le Strange. But, first, tell me, how long has Mrs Le Strange been shagging the milkman?" 

"‘Pon my word, Homes, that is a dreadful slur.....But the milkman, you say. How can you be so sure?"

"Because I'm the master detective you thick twat. I know everything. For instance, I've deduced that you've started eating your bogies again despite your pledge to the contrary. But no matter. As to Le Strange, can't you see it for yourself, Whitsun? You know my methods. Apply them."

"Bollocks. You're the detective. You do it."

"‘Tis already done."

Homes, sensing that my dander was rising to the point where I might nut him in the face, calmed the atmosphere by inviting us to draw up closer to the fire. Before sitting, he ordered some tea. Why he finds it necessary to call Mrs Hodsun a wizened up, fornicating old bitch is beyond my comprehension. But it does get the desired results and, within a few minutes, the refreshments arrived. Our landlady placed the tray upon the table before taking a wire and handing it to Homes. He read with obvious interest before folding it into his breast pocket. 

"Pardon me for asking, Mrs Hodsun," I enquired,"But why are you starkers save for a gas mask and a pair of pit boots?" 

"‘Tis Mr Hodsun, doctor," she whimpered, "He has been farting below stairs again, and the stench is dreadful. As to the boots, I am killing cockroaches. These little bleeders scuttle about with amazing speed. Therefore, despite the bitter weather, I have removed my clothes because I am hot as ‘tis pissing hard work."

Homes' face reddened with rage. He marched over to his desk, drew his pistol and marched back to Mrs Hodsun: "You stupid slag. Get below before I shoot your tits off. Now, gentlemen," he said, replacing the gun before turning to the inspector and I, "I apologise for our landlady's condition. Let us resume. Le Strange comes to our rooms wearing a frock. Doesn't that strike you as odd?" I nodded. The inspector squirmed. "He hasn't shaved for three days so sports what will one day be known as designer stubble. Clearly his wife no longer loves him because wives are there to fetch and carry for men and, thus, she would not allow him out of the house in that state.

"The object of her new affections is equally easy to deduce. The coalman is a poof, so he is not the one. The gasman is all of five and fifty and walks with a pronounced limp: I think we can exclude him. I have spied on her...errr...noticed Mrs Le Strange leaving Tresco's so there is no provisions delivery man. The milkman is young and, I presume, virile. I have seen him leave Le Strange's house at least three times per week with a broad smile upon his face. One visit is sufficient to collect his bill. I happen to know that they have no other visitors so the milkman is the one shagging Mrs Le Strange."

"What a load of old cobblers, Homes....."

"No, doctor, Mister ‘Omes is correct."cut in the inspector. 

"But, what of the frock?" I puzzled.

Homes lit another horse shit roll-up then continued: "The inspector has no clothes because his wife burned them all in a fit of illogical rage for which the fairer sex are renowned. Don't you remember, doctor, that we went over to their house at her invitation last week for a barbie? ‘Twas over Le Strange's knickers that she sizzled your burgers. So, in order to continue protecting law abiding citizens and upholding His Majesty's peace he has to go to work in a frock - one of Mrs Le Strange's frocks. She has piss-awful taste in clothes, does she not, doctor? Lastly, Mrs Le Strange is an attractive woman with quite stunning jugs - I know that because I have also been round to shag her - and she is known to the loafing classes as a slag and as ‘The Policeman's bike.'"

Our humble chamber fell silent, save for when Homes dropped another ripping fart. Inspector Le Strange sat distraught with head bowed upon his rather flat chest. I was, as usual, totally puzzled. Presently, the inspector recovered enough composure to address Homes: "You ‘ave got it in one, Mister ‘Omes, I am ashamed to say. But I ‘ope you'll not let it come in the way of givin' me your advice from time to time."

Homes smiled - a rare enough event in itself. He rubbed his belly a few times to dislodge another fart, strode across to the chemical apparatus, dropped his trousers, seated himself upon the neck of a two gallon retort and began filling it with gas: "Oh, come, come, inspector....ooooooh. You know me......ahhhhhhh, better than that. I didn't refuse you yesterday when you were.....ohhhhh.....ahhoooooahhh.....ahhh.....hauled before the Superintendent for pisssing out of the third floor window of the police station on to a crowd of loafers below, now did I?"

"True, Mister ‘Omes, true."

"Then I shalln't disappoint you this.....ooooh.....time. Pray let the good doctor and I have the facts."

I cannot pretend that I was pleased at my friend's actions. After all, baring one's hairy arse in full view of a policeman is not polite, to say the least. But Le Strange seemed not to notice. In any event, Homes climbed from the apparatus. He corked the retort, corked his arse, drew up his kex, then sat by the fire once again to hear Le Strange's narrative. For his turn, now Homes seemed more interested in taking the facts that taking the piss, the policeman was eager to deliver his speech. Raising himself to his full height - about five foot three in his high heels - Le Strange fingered his lapels, gave us all a twirl, then began: "‘Tis this way, gentlemen. Doubtless you ‘ave both ‘eard of the Stone of Ravishaft-o and that it ‘as gone missin'. And that it was taken from its place of display at The Empire. That stone, Mister ‘Omes, was of such great value to its owner - one Ranjit Singh, proprietor of The Eastern Garden Curry ‘Ouse - that ‘e directed a number of ‘is best employees to guard it. These men were all of the ‘ighest calibre and were, to use a piece of official police-speak, built like brick shit'ouses. Nevertheless, Mister 'Omes, doctor Whitsun, someone made away wi' the stone."

Homes listened with considerable attention to the transvestite inspector's account. He leaned towards Le Strange, placing the forefinger of his left hand across his lips as though deep in thought. As it transpired, however, this was merely a ploy to lure us into a false sense of security. Homes farted again and on full power. "How do you rate the stench, doctor: are my gut in need of a good service?"

"I should say they are in need of immediate replacement."

"And I should say, Mister ‘Omes, that you'd be arrested if you did that in public."

The master detective was positively glowing at his rectal prowess mentioning that, one day, it might prove a very useful weapon against the criminal classes. Once more he leaned towards Le Strange: "And what steps have you taken?"

"I ‘ave learned the steps of the waltz: I take the woman's part."

"No, dewdrop, what have you done to apprehend the perpetrators of the crime?"

"Well, there's not too much to go on. Except for an odd pong about the place - the same as wot is in ‘ere - I couldn't find very much. I can tell you that those guarding the stone were found senseless upon the floor by the manager of The Empire: ‘e went for the police ‘ence my involvement. When ‘e returned the men ‘ad gone and ‘ave never been seen again. Other than that I've drawn a blank."

"Do not worry yourself over drawing blanks, Le Strange. The good doctor, here, has been firing blanks for years. Just ask Mrs Whitsun...."

"Cheeky git. Then how come she's up the stick, Mr Clever-shit-detective?" But, then, I believed my worst fears were about to become a reality: "Oh no, Homes, don't say you've shagged her, too?"

"No, doctor. Your old lady has a face like a bag of spanners. Now then, inspector, did you conduct your enquiries whilst wearing that frock?"

"Yep."

"You prat."

"Really, Homes," I ejaculated at his impudence.

"I do wish you would stop ejaculating all over the place, Whitsun, Mrs Hodsun has a deuce of a job with the stains. But to the matter in hand. If we are to solve this case I need data upon which to work. Let us visit the scene."

Homes sprang from his chair like a tiger who scents his prey. He scooped a few things from the mantelpiece then placed his smoking materials - more horse shit - into his pocket. Within a few seconds we stood on Baxter Street. And just a few seconds later we were wheeling along the cobbles in a hansom. Homes sat resolute. I gazed at the metropolis. The Inspector adjusted his frock. 

"For Gawd's, inspector, stop that bloody noise." barked Homes, "How can I concentrate on a case that you're too stupid to crack? Is it not sufficient that you look like a total pillock without adding the sound effects, too?"

"Do not be so hard on him Homes." I suggested.

"I do not achieve the hard-on over policemen dressed as common scrubbers, Whitsun. Now that flash piece Irenie Addler, I bet she is a bit of a goer."

"Would that be the mother of the little boy who plays the mouth organ?"

"Whitsun, you are a bigger twat than the inspector, here. Pray shut you gob: unless you want my boot in it, that is."

Homes banged on the roof of the cab to speed the driver's work. For his part, the driver farted then whipped up the horse. Presently we arrived at The Empire, an establishment that would, in all probability, be turned into a bingo hall when someone invents them. We alighted and I filled my pipe, offering my pouch to Homes: "Would you care to partake in a little shag?"

"Not presently, Whitsun." he said, dismissing my outstretched hand. "I know we are on intimate terms but there are certain things two gentlemen do not do in the presence of one of Her Majesty's police inspectors....." 

The Empire was set on about half an acre in a reasonably respectable quarter of London. It was a rather sombre, grey stoned building and unusually tall for its single storey. There was a very dark leaved ivy clinging to the northern face whilst, altogether more pleasing on the eye, young wisteria plants began to colonise the lower courses on the other three sides. Unusually, the windows were set high up in the walls and the only visible means of entry and exit was a large, imposing oak door. 

Inspector Le Strange was in his element at the scene of a crime. Naturally he would balls-up the catching of the criminals but there were certain traits to his character that set him above many of his police colleagues. As well as his tenacity and shrewd observation he liked to get pissed at every conceivable opportunity and occasionally took bribes to pervert the course of justice. Homes believed that latter point came about as a result of the inspector actually being a pervert. And few could refute that reasoning especially as Le Strange was, at that time, dressed in a bowler hat and a pretty red frock. But, as I have said, at the scene of a crime there were few better and he accompanied Homes to look for clues. I took it upon myself to examine the interior.

Remembering Homes' methods I tapped my cane on each of the twelve marble steps as I ascended to The Empire's reception area. As a side issue, I must concede that I did not know why he found it necessary to tape his cane upon the floor so often. It is a most annoying habit. I presumed that Homes was ridding the end of dog shit until he explained that it was to check whether or not the floor was hollow. 

The entrance hall was pleasingly decorated with an assortment of basic furniture arranged around some of Mr Singh's eastern exhibits. I examined that room as well as the three other smaller rooms leading from it. There was a simple kitchen with quite an assortment of ingredients for making strong curries and a leather-seated chair upon which was a peculiar stain - a matter which I brought to Homes' attention. And, to its right, two rooms with ‘Birds' and ‘Blokes' inscribed one upon each door. Just as I was about to enter the main area from where the Stone was stolen, I heard twelve cane taps upon the steps. Turning to Homes, who was accompanied by the increasingly lovely-looking inspector Le Strange, I suggested: "The steps are not hollow."

"I have no idea, doctor, I was knocking some dog shit from the end of my cane.....But, Whitsun, I see you've had to nip for a slash. Clearly all the cludgies have been smashed up in the ‘Blokes', but all those in the ‘Birds' are intact."

I do not mind admitting that I had to concede Homes' point with some shame. But then it dawned upon me: "But you cannot know those things. You and the inspector have been outside. You cannot see through the windows because they are too tall and the door was all but closed."

"Excellent, Whitsun, excellent." he began, directing the inspector to take a seat, "We'll make a detective of you yet. But as usual, you have knacked it up by missing all the vital clues. Consider these points. I know of your old war wound and the resulting bladder weakness. I know that you consumed quite a quantity of Mrs Hodsun's excellent tea before we left. And it is a cold morning. You do not need to be a Sherlock Holmes to figure that, within quite a short time, you would be dying for a ‘Jimmy'. Your toilet habits are normally meticulous so I would be a poor observer indeed if I didn't notice that you'd splashed your boots."

I glanced at my soaking footwear with some discomfort. Once again that smug bastard had got it right: "But surely you cannot know that the conveniences are smashed up: do you divine that a marauding band of football supporters have been to view the Stone and, upon not finding it, they went upon an orgy of sanitary destruction?"

"No, doctor, Rovers are playing away. No. It was not football supporters who damaged the bogs. And, speaking of the bogs, do you not observe that you have a few porcelain chippings lodged in your trouser turn-ups? That could only happen if you had been forced to make a temporary toiletry arrangement. As a gentleman you would not use the ‘Birds'. Neither would you just piss in the corner. And you have not been outside since entering the building so the only possible conclusion is that all the bogs are smashed. My theory is that you searched the cubicles looking for the least damaged and used that one. In so doing one or two chippings fell into your turn-ups as you clambered over the destroyed conveniences."

"Brilliant, Mister ‘Omes, brilliant." crooned Le Strange, as he adjusted his pretty frock once again. "But I'm perplexed about the funk in ‘ere. This place and your gaff smells like a bog. ‘Ow cum the two funks are the same?"

"I return the compliment, inspector: your hooter does not deceive you. Well, almost does not deceive you. We will examine the inner room whilst doctor Whitsun recounts what he knows of the owner of this Stone."

I stood by the shattered glass display case in the centre of the room; a contrivance which was, until very recently, the last known home of the Stone of Ravishaft-o. Homes directed Le Strange's attention to a seat just to my left hand then threw himself into a detailed examination of the room's interior. Whilst the inspector prodded and poked at the seat, making sundry notes in his pocketbook, I began to recount the facts as I knew them: "This Mr Singh. He is the finest of gentlemen and is well thought of for his business acumen. He owns several eating houses in the City. He is beyond reproach."

"Someone ‘as crapped on this ‘ere chair, Mister ‘Omes." butted in Le Strange.

"Indeed, inspector? Well, as usual, you are marginally correct. And Whitsun, as usual, has got it totally wrapped round his bollocks." 

Finishing his examination, Homes returned to Le Strange and I: "You will do well to note the small drop of dried blood upon that table leg, Inspector, I have every confidence that it will prove to be of vital importance to this investigation. He turned to me: "The fact is, Whitsun, this Mr Singh is not who he purports to be. He is an impostor. He is none other than London's most notorious criminal, Professor Morry-Farty. In fact, without wishing to appear as something of a flash git, I must tell you that I knew as much before we left Baxter Street."

"You bleeding liar." I ejaculated just before I should have done.

"Yes, doctor, I did know that. And what have I said about coming too early? The fact is that I've been active upon this case for some time. And the fact is, too, Whitsun, that I've added lying to my list of vices. Can you remember asking me if I'd been involved with this case: and that I said, no? Well I lied. Good, eh, Whitsun? You see, I'm participating in a competition on the back of the cornflakes box: the one where the organisers wish to find ‘The Corrupt Bastard of the Year'. Well I only need to mug four more vicars and to get lagged-up every night for a week and I will have fulfilled all their requirements. I believe I shall be in with a shout of winning, doctor."

"Shagging birds, lying, robbing vicars? Good gracious, Homes, what ever next?"

"Deaf as well as being a twat, doctor? I've just told you. Getting pissed."

"Well, if you must....But, what of Mr Singh?" I pressed.

"The Mr Singh is currently searching for a supply of ice cubes for his eating houses and we will talk to him as soon as we can."

"When, Mister ‘Omes?"

"Difficult to say. He is currently aboard the Titanic....."

Inspector Le Strange, agitated at the potential delay, gave us yet another little twirl.

"You nancy-boy, Le Strange, no wonder the force is up shit-creek with blokes like you running the show. I suppose you wear frilly knickers, too?" 

By way of an answer the inspector began to raise his skirt, swaying his hips in a rhythmic motion that my medical knowledge told me would induce a trance in those watching unless it were stopped. "No, Le Strange. No." I cried. "For Gawd's sake do not show us your gusset. We do not want Homes' powers distracted at this crucial moment. He is likely to whip out his tok. The consequences are untold. Surely to God you do not want him trying to shag all the members of the Le Strange family? Tis perhaps the odour in this room that drives a police inspector to perform a strip tease," I said wheeling to Homes who was, at that instant, rebuttoning his fly. "Let us have compassion for his plight; what with him wearing a frock so possibly turning into a ‘mincer', and all that."

Homes agreed. Le Strange was certainly in a bad way. But, perhaps do to his extensive police training, he recovered enough of his composure to say: "Are you sure nobody ‘as crapped on this chair, Mister ‘Omes? And can you not tell us what foul deed ‘as been committed in this ‘ere room?"

"Certainly, puff-ball. But all in good time. There are on or two loose ends to clear up, upon which I will now engage myself. If you and doctor-dickhead here will take the cab back to Baxter Street, I shall join you as soon as I can. I think a couple of hours should do it."

We left Shylock Homes at The Empire. As Le Strange and I walked down the short, gravel path to the waiting cab upon the road, we turned to see Shylock Homes scurry about in the grounds. The inspector placed his arm into mine. Although I was repulsed I could not help letting the moment linger. I was musing at his stubby, hairy arm sticking out of the white lace ruffle at the end of his red sleeve: that's my story and I am sticking to it. Eventually I brushed him aside with the butt-end of my pistol, and we climbed into the cab.

Given that we had a couple of hours to spare I dropped Le Strange at the corner of Marlborough Road. He said that, before our Baxter Street meeting, he planned to ‘nick' one or two innocent persons for crimes they did not commit to swell the figures for his impending promotion application. I alighted a little further on, planning not to be one of the persons Le Strange intended to ‘nick'. And, in any case, I conjectured, a stroll through the park would be beneficial after the rank odours that I had been subjected to of late.

As it happened, Le Strange and I arrived in Baxter Street at exactly the same moment. We exchanged greetings at the front door, Le Strange rushing to add that he had arrested seventeen persons during the interval and that he had himself been arrested by an over zealous uniformed officer for allegedly soliciting outside the toilets on Gas Street. "One cannot even nip for a quite slash without the long arm of the law descending." he mused. How the long arm of the law could mistake a scrubber for a policeman dressed in a red frock and bowler, and wearing a beard I could not imagine. Perhaps that proved Home's point when he said the police were all wankers. Or did he say they were all bonkers? Ah, well, no matter: "Come then, inspector," said I. "Let us ascend the stairs. We can warm ourselves by the fire whilst we wait for Homes." 

We had hardly climbed half a dozen when, quite obviously from our chamber, there came a dreadful explosion. Le Strange and I flew up the remainder. I heaved open the door and, once again, fell into that dreadful green smog. "Homes." I bellowed. "Homes. Are you alright? Homes, answer me. I know you think me a dreadfully stupid bastard, and that you take the piss at every turn, and that I am eating my bogies again. But, Homes, my dear fellow, what has become.....?"

From the corner of the room came a weak cough. It seemed to come from under a pile of chairs. Le Strange helped me drag away the debris and there, prostrate, was Shylock Homes. With great care we eased him into the centre of the room. Le Strange comforted him whilst I went for my bag. Mrs Whitsun was unavailable so I went for my medical bag instead. The explosion had blackened Homes' face and singed his hair, his jacket was ripped to shreds and the arse of his pants was burned in quite a full circle exposing his sinuous buttocks.

"Good God, Mister ‘Omes what the f...?"

"‘Flipping heck has happened?" I cut in, just in the nick of time.

"I have placed the criminal within your grasp, inspector, that is what has happened." choked Homes, weakly, "This last experiment, dangerous though it turned out to be, was entirely necessary in order that I should prove Professor Morry-Farty was responsible for stealing the Stone of Ravishaft-o."

"Then perhaps, Homes, when you have been treated and recovered to my complete satisfaction, you will complete the story." I directed Le Strange to open all the windows to dispel the stench then clear-up the room as best he could whilst I saw to Homes' wounds. It transpired that, after swabbing, his injuries were quite slight. Other than ninety percent burns, all ribs broken and sticking through the skin of his chest, a broken leg and one eye hanging out on its thread, all was well. "You will be fully recovered after an aspirin, this sticking plaster and another horse shit fag, Homes. Sit there for five minutes then you may proceed."

Just as I had predicted, all Homes' injuries healed within the allotted time: no doubt a less fit man would have taken ten minutes to recover. And it was a good job a doctor was at hand for, given other circumstances, Homes might not be with us today. 

We drew up to the fire once again. Homes took a deep breath, composed himself fully then began: "The good doctor came in upon some preliminary experiments related to the passing of rectal gas for criminal purposes. As you are aware, I like to keep myself abreast of such matters for it is only the knowledge of farting and crime that I am able to catch such persons who use that method. Whitsun, being the twat that he is, all but gassed himself in the process and nearly broke a limb ‘pon the furniture strewn about our room."

"Indeed, Homes. I meant to ask you about that. There were sufficient chairs, and they were of ideal quality for you hold an exhibition." said I.

"An ideal Homes exhibition, Mister ‘Omes?"

"Shut it, Lula-bell. Now, my underground connections - no, not on the Circle Line, Whitsun - had told me that a gem theft was in the planning. And that it was most likely to be a daring and audacious robbery. There are few men capable of pulling such a stunt: there is ‘Bad Jake' McTavish of Glasgow, Scotland; Lord Lukan; and Professor Morry-Farty. 

"The first is in prison with his fellow conspirators. The second has been missing for some time, so that left Morry-Farty. It was he, therefore, who was about to steal a jewel - or jewels - from somewhere in London. And as you know, gentlemen, that odious person will employ all methods - but usually foul ones - in his pursuit of crime. And, as Le Strange should know being a top copper, Morry-Farty has tried just about everything for his criminal exploits, but has not yet tried farting. The assumption was, therefore, that he would try it this time, hence my experiments. Err, do have a cigar, inspector."

"Ta. But ‘ow about this ‘ere explosion?"

"All in good time. The Empire exhibition was the only temporary exhibition of gems in the Capital so it was probable, but not definite, that Morry-Farty would strike there.  Now, I had a number of lines of enquiry open at the time you and Le Strange sat around the fire, a few hours ago. And ‘twas our nude tea lady who, after nearly dangling her slack little titties into our Earl Grey, handed me the wire that proved a couple of my theories. Here, doctor, read it aloud."

"‘Suspicions confirmed. STOP. Singh at sea. STOP. M-F's lieutenants buying chairs at furniture auction. STOP. M-F owns The Empire. STOP. Pycroft.' Indeed, Homes, I see."

"Indeed you do not see, Whitsun. You are a goon and there's no mistaking the fact. Morry-Farty would have to persuade Singh to exhibit at The Empire, thus ensuring the Stone was within the Professor's power for as long as was necessary: don't forget that the exhibition was due to run for seven weeks. Now, the Professor is a greedy and cunning bastard and would know that, as colonials only trust their own kind when away from their own soil, Mr Singh would only trust a fellow Indian. The inspector will tell you, doctor, that upon entering that establishment I found several empty tins of brown boot polish. As you know, Indians do not wear boots so there would be no need for such materials; not unless someone had blacked-up, that is. But The Empire is not a theatre. So question then became, ‘who blacked-up, and why?' Being a master of disguise, and because the task of luring Mr Singh into his net was too delicate to entrust to another, the answer was obviously Morry-Farty himself."

"Brilliant." cried Le Strange, "You are a master of your craft, Mister ‘Omes. I shall show you my crotch after all."

"Sit, inspector." I snarled. "If you must ‘flash' in this chamber pray wait until Homes had finished his dull and dreary diatribe."

"Alright."

"Now, turning to The Empire for a moment. Whitsun correctly deduced - which I confirmed - that  the only way in and out was via that large oak door, so that is how the criminals entered and left."

"But could they not have hired a helicopter and swung in on ropes like they do in James Brond films?" I ventured.

"Eh?"

"James Brond." I asserted. "You must have seen the lantern shows: there was that erotic espionage title, The Spy who Rubbed Me; the one about the world's wittiest person, The Man with the Golden Pun; and the gardening adventure, Green Finger. There are many more."

Homes, despite his recent explosive trauma, sprang over to throw his wiry hands around my throat: "You dozy bleeder. Pillock. Bastard. Git. This, Whitsun, is Edwardian England." he screamed whilst thrashing my head back and forth. "The technological revolution is years away. Men may land ‘pon the moon one day but we still live in an era of gas lamps and hansom cabs, horse shit and aspidistras." 

"That, Mister ‘Omes, is assault and battery." said the policeman, searching amongst the flowing gown for his handcuffs.

"And that, Le Strange," hissed Homes, taking one hand from my throat to point to a slim wooden case beneath the sideboard, "Is my trusty, sawn-off, double barrelled shot gun."

"So?"

"So, I am educating the good doctor. Is thst a crime? Do you intend to arrest me for it? No? Good. Then pray replace your handcuffs into the dark crevices of your person otherwise you will experience the business end of that shooter up your frock. Now, let us have less of this crap and return to the matter in hand. Pray sit up, doctor. Now where was I? Oh yes. The Empire. Le Strange pointed out that the peculiar odours in this chamber and The Empire were the same. In fact, they were not absolutely identical, but very nearly so. And that was crucial, particularly in view of Whitsun's toiletry experience. All the crappers were obviously smashed-up otherwise his boots would not have been wet. Whitsun would simply have found one that was intact, used it, then wiped his plonker ‘pon the curtains just as he does in Baxter Street.

"Then, ‘twas you, Le Strange, who came to our rescue by providing the next link in the chain. You suggested that someone had crapped upon the chair by which you stood at The Empire. Then, doctor, ‘twas you, was it not, who found the means for making hot curries at the scene?"

"Indeed." 

"But you could not deduce why those materials were there? No? Neither I for certain, at the time. But my experiments in Baxter Street pointed that way. Without delving into every scrap of detail, gentlemen, it is sufficient to say that Morry-Farty had been making and consuming vast amounts of hot curry to fool Mr Singh into thinking he was an Indian for the reason we have seen. The Professor would, of course, be aided by the fact that Mr Singh's sight and hearing are not at their best. But the fact is, doctor - and I am surprised your medical knowledge did not give this to you - the English constitution cannot accept large amounts of this food without rebellion unless it has been previously accustomed."

"Then, in short, Mister ‘Omes, Morry-Farty was practising for the Indian take-aways he would have to eat whilst wooing, as it were, Mr Singh?"

"Quite so." bowed Homes. 

"Now, Whitsun and I are accustomed to curry because Mrs Hodsun occasionally prepares them for us. But we are not accustomed to such strengths as an Indian would be, and neither was Morry-Farty. So, ‘pon the occasion of my first experiment, Whitsun, prior to your arrival, I had eaten a huge quantity of hot curry. I spent thirty minutes in the bog. And even thirty minutes after that the farts were so strong and frequent that the vile stench that nearly knocked you over was the afterburn. In fact it nearly blew my arse off. 

"Vitally important is the fact that the fart reacted with my pig-skin covered seat. And the green haze was its reaction with the seat covering. Do you not see," he said, rising, "That the scorch  mark upon this chair and the one at The Empire are very similar? That was the point where I became absolutely clear about why Whitsun had pissed upon his boots. Morry-Farty practised his curry eating after closing time in the seclusion and privacy of The Empire. One night - I cannot tell which night - he became desperate for a dump so rushed to the ‘Blokes'. Each time he released, the bog exploded so he was forced to move to the next. And so on. That is why they were all destroyed. Five shits; five explosions; five wrecked cludgies. After five goes he was spent.

"The marks on the two chairs are similar - but not identical - because this chair is of pig-skin whilst the those at The Empire are covered in leather; cow skin. But, at the time in Baxter Street, I did not know that. So, purely for the academic exercise, I sent for some chairs to test the results of farting upon them. Incorrectly, as it transpired, I assumed that pig skin and leather would give a similar reaction so did not bother to order a leather covered seat. The moral there, Le Strange, is never assume: or never fart upon a leather chair. Take your choice. Those chairs were the ones ‘pon which you nearly crippled yourself, doctor. As a side issue I am now in a position to write a small monologue upon the subject of farting onto the various types of seat coverings, and the resulting reactions produced: I shall call it ‘Farting upon leather seats'. And, whilst discussing that subject, do you remember remarking to me about the stain upon that leather chair in the kitchen, Whitsun?"

"Indeed"

"Morry-Farty did that. It was the instant when, I have no doubt, he realised how this robbery could be pulled off. Le Strange, can you remember my commenting upon that small blood stain? And that you commented to me upon the matter of the second chair in a similar condition to the one found by Whitsun? Good. That is the Professor's blood and I can be very certain as to how it came to be there. After breaking all the bogs, and being by then quite worn out through his extended shitting session, Morry-Farty sat upon the first chair. He farted. A reaction began which  rendered him unconscious. Naturally he fell from the chair, banging and cutting his head on the table leg. Some while later he recovered to realise the great potential of his actions."

"So that chair was placed in the kitchen to remove it from public view. Therefore the one by the glass case was actually used by the Professor during the robbery?" 

"Excellent, doctor. No-one will sit upon a chair that he thinks someone has shit upon, eh? Morry-Farty prepared and ate his curry. Being more accustomed to its nature he did not need the explosive shit that he needed previously. So he calmly walked into the exhibition chamber, sat upon that leather chair, and farted. He quickly left the scene leaving his men to be gassed, then returned to nick the Stone. Whilst the manager was away summoning Le Strange's mob the guards recovered and made their escape. And the whole affair looked like a dastardly robbery. In fact, I can say for absolute certain that those men do not know exactly what took place inside The Empire."

"Mister ‘Omes, that is the biggest load of old bollocks that I‘ve ever ‘eard."

"Thank you, Le Strange."

"Don't forget, Homes, that you were going to relate nature of the explosion." Said I.

"Ah, yes, I almost forgot. When you and Le Strange left me at The Empire I went to buy a leather covered chair for a further experiment: to prove that the results would be different from those pertaining to a pig-skin covering. And so they were. I slopped some curry down my neck, waited a few moments then farted ‘pon the chair. Jees, what a funk, Whitsun. That fart was the most potent yet. Exactly what happened then I am not sure. There was a blinding flash, I felt the searing heat and the next thing I remember was you and the Inspector pulling me from the rubble. Gentlemen, you already have the remaining details."

And so it was that Homes solved case. He did not, as he had stated, deliver Morry-Farty into the hand of the police. Being a sly bastard, the Professor slipped through the net once again and Homes will, of course, have to cross swords with him again.

The final point to this adventure came some weeks after the builders had finished renovating our chamber. 

"I've been meaning to show you this, doctor."

"Put it away, Homes....."

"No, not that. This." he said, tossing a small leather pouch over to me. "Go ahead. Open it."

I tugged at the string and a large diadem fell into my lap: "Phew. It must be worth a fortune. How did you come by it?"

"Indeed it is worth a fortune. It is the Stone of Ravishaft-o. I took the precaution contacting the real Mr Singh some short time ago. After outlining the possibility of the theft of his jewel he needed little persuasion to allow me to exchange the genuine one for a piece of expertly cut glass. And that proves Morry-Farty's men were not in on the robbery. They cannot know what actually took place when they were gassed because they would also have to know that their illustrious leader was outwitted by Shylock Homes. It would not take long for the fact that he had stolen a worthless piece of glass to circulate amongst the criminal fraternity: the Professor would become a laughing stock, would he not? As it is, now, all that anyone knows is that a faceless someone stole it. Only Morry-Farty knows the truth and he will, of course, keep it to himself. It also shows that the Professor considers every angle: he is a worthy and formidable opponent, doctor."

"So Mr Singh entrusted his Stone to you. And what will you do with it, Homes?"

"Keep it safe for Mr Singh until he returns from his sea voyage. Either that or flog in ‘pon the black market to pay for a series of sordid sex sessions with Le Strange, errrr, a common scrubber or two."

"I see. But what about my readers: in short, how shall I tell them you solved the Adventure of the Pigskin Chair, as I intend to call this case?"

"Tell them it was alimentary, my dear Whitsun. Alimentary....."